


Tea Parties and Bear Claws

by CoffeeAndConjunctions



Series: A Relationship As Told By Meals [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Maria Hill is a Good Bro, Self Reflection Sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:17:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6928225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndConjunctions/pseuds/CoffeeAndConjunctions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnes supports most of her weight as they make their way to the couch (she might be exaggerating the sleepiness a little but she can't help it when he's all solid muscle and sends out heat like a furnace) the afghan drags on the floor like a cape behind her. The couch is long and deep, she curls up easily into the cushions, cocooned in the afghan. </p><p>Seeing her settled in he makes to leave but she catches his finger loosely in her own (he stiffens but doesn't try and rip her fingers off which is improvement.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea Parties and Bear Claws

iii. Tea Parties and Bear Claws

It's not that she and Barnes—who was now _Bucky_ but her inner monologue hadn't had time to adjust to that quite yet—were bosom buddies after the unfortunate...bosom incident. More like they were acquaintances who shared the same apartment complex. He occupied Cap's private floor several levels away from the R &D labs and she was delegated to the floor right above the labs (okay, so actually she had been meant to share Thor's floor with Jane but those assholes had seriously obnoxious reunion sex) they weren't as grand as the Avenger suites but it was more space then she would have ever been able to afford in New York and just a few floors down from her office (which she'd used now a total of six times, mostly she hung out in the various labs trying to keep her bosses and minions from dying or blowing up—well, blowing up everything.)

Commander Maria ' _I'm Not S.H.I.E.L.D Anymore'_ Hill shared the floor with her and they got along surprisingly well considering the disaster this could have been—Hill had a fancy titled of her own from Stark Industries payroll but Darcy knew she was the unofficial, official Handler of the Team. After two weeks of face-to-mat sessions with Natasha, Hill had shown up at her door (at the _ass crack of dawn_ because these fuckers knew no other time of day) primly dressed in running clothes requesting (in a tone that left no room for argument) that Darcy join her for a morning jog. So into the sports bra she squeezes because while she could mouth of to Natasha sometimes, there was an authority to Hill that left her feeling a little awe struck at the woman.

When she grew up she wanted to be a less terrifying version of Maria Hill.

The first five minutes are spent stretching out hamstrings and quads, Hill stresses the important of proper form, before they start at a slow, steady pace Darcy knows is for her benefit. Now, she was no slouch in this department, after New Mexico and London she had taken up doing a few miles on the tread mill when she could find the time but the asphalt was much more punishing then the smooth rhythm of rubber treads. Hill doesn't make small talk but there is an amiable silence between them—out of everyone in the Tower only Hill really knew that she went through, because she did it herself (so yeah, Maria Hill. Totally her 'if I had to pick a girl').

Managing the lives of others was no easy task.

She manages to keep going for about forty minutes before a stitch starts forming at her side and she slows to a stop next to a bench, sucking in big gulps of air she bends at the waist and holds a finger up to Hill asking for a moment. Several deep breaths later and a few odd looks from the early birds out and about she's fairly confident she can keep going but Hill has other plans.

“Place two blocks from here serves a mean Bear Claw. Want to grab a bite?”

“Hill, I love you—let me have your babies? Nat never gives me pastries after kicking my ass, normally only doles out Russian wisdom about suffering.”

A perfectly sculpted brow rises in synch with the corner of her mouth (she made Hill smile, in like a normal people way—yay her) before she shakes her head and motions for Darcy to follow, which she does with renewed vigor in her step. They make small talk on the way and now Darcy thinks the no talking thing was more for her benefit then anything else. Hill is a surprisingly social creature, greeting the cashier at Ruth's Cafe familiarly, she introduces Darcy as a coworker and orders 'the works' which means that after they sit down two steaming mugs are placed on the table and a plate of assorted pastries too.

Immediately Hill goes for the Bear Claw, tearing a chuck with her fingers before popping it into her mouth (it's a strange thing to notice but Darcy recalls this is the way that Clint and Natasha eat as well, slow measured bites as if looking for something in the food. Did that level of paranoia come pre-packaged or was it learned she wonders.) Taking up a danish bursting with filling, looks like cinnamon apple, she tears out a chunk of her own (when in Rome, right) and lets her eyes flutter close at the flaky sweetness of the pastry.

“Ugh, I can feel my hips expanding but it's so worth it.”

“Should bring you back to try the Meatloaf sometime.”

“Hey, Hill?”

“Mhmm?” the sound is murmured behind the rim of her mug.

“As cool as this is, and believe me this is tres cool. I feel like I need to ask _why_ and hope you don't take it the wrong way.”

“You're learning, that's good—never taken anything at face value if you can ask why.” Hill nods and puts down her mug, “Romanov's lessons are a good idea, but it takes time to become effective. So I am giving you a lesson of my own. When you see something going wrong, you run—as far and fast as you can. Let the Team do their job, help those you can. But run, its the best defense.”

Brows furrow and she feels her face pulling into a scowl, “You don't think I can take care of myself?”

“I don't want to have to think of you taking care of yourself. I want to know you'll be safe because you can run _far and fast_.”

“Like a coward.”

“Like a survivor, there is no shame in living to fight another day. It's not bravery to pick a fight you can't win—it's stupidity.” Folding her arms over the table she leans forward, blue eyes drilling into her own. “ Learn from Natasha but keep yourself safe, for my sake if not your own.”

“You aren't my keeper, Maria. You don't have to be _Team Mom_ for me.”

“Don't be purposefully obtuse, I am not insulting you. I'm giving you an evaluation.”

“I though you were giving me cardiac arrest through running and pastries.”

Snorting in an undignified manner which doesn't fit with her image of Hill at all she watches the older woman lean back against the booth. “Just, try and have a little self preservation is all I ask.”

“Okay, I will make you a deal. We make this delightful torture a weekly thing and we got ourself an accord.”

“I can do that, Lewis.”

* * *

That night in the common room, well past midnight, she is fixated on her talk with Hill. Darcy's never been the 'look before you leap' type so she can see why Hill would think she's liable to get herself hurt by leaping into a fray she has no place being in but she's got her taser (she'd survived New Mexico and London) and that had to count for something. Living with so many extraordinary people could really put a damper on self esteem when one stopped to think about it, which is why she made a point to rarely do so.

Mulling over the deeper meaning of Hill's words (because this is Hill and nothing is just whats on the surface) she doesn't hear the faint footfalls of someone moving around in the kitchen, her back is turned to the appliances and she's clutching a cold mug of tea untouched from when she'd come in to have a cup hoping to soothe her racing mind. The cold mug is plucked from her hand, replaced by a new steaming one and the warmth feels wonderful against her chilled hands. Barnes—Bucky--sits down without much sound beside her and starts scooping spoonfuls of sugar into his tea and lets a spoonful hover over her cup before she shakes her head now, so he adds that one to his mug too.

Stirring the liquid in careful swirls his voice, still rough with sleep is unexpected, “Want to talk about it?”

Silent for a moment she shakes her head and sips from her fresh mug of tea, “Not really—you?”

“No.”

Minutes tick away but she doesn't feel the need to speak again—they are offering each other the support of silence which is nice, it's not intrusive and it doesn't feel like it needs to be a thing (she doesn't want to make this self-pitying a think, it's not attractive) but eventually she swallows the dregs of her tea and pillows her head on folded arms supported by the table. Head angled so she can look at Bucky's profile she maps out the shape of his nose a little broader then would be considered handsome and his shorter layers swing against his chin—stubbled with much more then a five o'clock shadow—a piece of her own dark hair falls over her eyes. She too comfortable to unfold herself to push it out of the way so she blows out a few short breaths hoping to displace the strands to no avail.

Warm calloused fingers brush against her cheek, when he tucks the strands behind her ears his finger tips graze the shell of her ear and she can't suppress a shiver. Most of her face is covered by her forearms (there is a God and he is keeping her from making a fool of herself again) and his fingers don't linger any longer then it takes to get the job done. He goes back to watching the sky line and she returns to mapping out the planes of his face (it's a nice face, with a high brow and a touch of bronze to his complexion) it could be minutes or hours but eventually the exhaustion of the past week catches up with her and she's lulled to sleep by steady breaths and the occasional shifting of metal plates.

When she wakes up Bucky is standing over her with a soft look on his face, it's more open and relaxed then she's ever seen it, an afghan normally found in the lounge is draped across her back—courtesy of Barnes she would assume.

“Wha' time s'it? ”

“Late.”

“Mhmm, that's a good time.”

“Suppose that's true, it's quiet—hard to find in this place.”

“Mmmm” her eyes are dropping lower and the calming timber of his voice is pulling her back to sleep when the hand on her shoulder gives her a quick little shake.

“Come on, off to bed.”

“Couch?”

“You drive a hard bargain Ma'am.”

Barnes supports most of her weight as they make their way to the couch (she might be exaggerating the sleepiness a little but she can't help it when he's all solid muscle and sends out heat like a furnace) the afghan drags on the floor like a cape behind her. The couch is long and deep, she curls up easily into the cushions, cocooned in the afghan. Seeing her settled in he makes to leave but she catches his finger loosely in her own (he stiffens but doesn't try and rip her fingers off which is improvement.)

“Next time, if you want, we can talk.”

“Next time, now sleep.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He squeezes her fingers briefly and then walks out of the room, snuggling deeper into the couch she succumbs to sleep. In the morning Bruce would find her tucked away into the corner of the massive L-shaped couch and would let her sleep another hour or two.

Poor kid looked like she needed it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a little more somber then usual but life can't be sunshine and rainbows all the time.


End file.
